


Teach me to grieve and conspire

by boybeaulieu



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Canonical Child Abuse, Detective Wymack, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mystery, the twinyards love each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:02:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24127858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boybeaulieu/pseuds/boybeaulieu
Summary: He knows what he’s done, he feels the blood on his skin, he sees the knife on the ground. He hears the sirens, sees the people looking at him. Aaron knows what he’s done: he got up, walked to those boys and stabbed one of them within an inch of his life. He doesn’t know why.orThe Sinner AU where detective Wymack finds himself tangled in a case where nothing is what it seems, trying to unravel the dark secrets buried in Aaron Minyard's mind. One fateful night, shattered memories and the ghost of someone dear hold the truth; he's going to set it free.
Relationships: Aaron Minyard & Andrew Minyard, Katelyn/Aaron Minyard, Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 15
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am, posting something new instead of finishing what I've already started. Typical me! Anyway, this is way darker than anything I've ever written (if you're familiar with the series you already know), so please beware. It is a bit of an experiment because it's going to be from Aaron and Wymack's POV. Of course, Andrew and Neil are still going to play their (rather fundamental) part.  
> That being said, enjoy!

**I**

It’s hot in South Carolina. It’s always hot, but today Aaron’s sweat-soaked t-shirt clings to his body more uncomfortably than usual. Summer is almost over and, still, South Carolina weather is what it is.

The room is bright, he insisted on getting shut out blinds but Katelyn always said she liked waking up to the sun. He gave in, of course, how could he ever deny her? She’s by his side, spread out on the bed and dead to the world. He turns to look at her, her hair and her soft skin and the way she sleeps just like Rachel. A hand by her cheek, the other over her stomach. His girls. He remembers last night, moving between her thighs, her mouth on his neck. Stopping, then going through the motions. She noticed, of course she did. She didn’t say anything though, and Aaron loves her. He feels at odds with himself, with his body, as if something big and heavy’s weighing down his chest. It happens, sometimes, when he remembers –when he remembers. Lately, he’s been doing that a lot. With a heavy sigh he gets up and checks on Rachel and makes breakfast and does all the things he always does. He showers, he listens to the quiet. It’s both a blessing and a curse, being an early riser. As he leans onto the counter, though, and his brain goes blank and he seems to feel those little grains of dust fall onto his skin, one by one, he guesses it’s mostly a curse. Katelyn walks into the kitchen with Rachel in her arms, most of the time Aaron is happy she’s taken so much after her mother and so little after him. Physically, at least.

“Are you excited for today, baby?” He asks Rachel, she mumbles something incomprehensible and he nods in agreement. They’re going to the lake today, it’s Sunday and it’s been a tough week at work, Katelyn says he deserves some rest. He feels her hand on his back, ever gentle, and squeezes it. She smiles, he knows it even if he can’t see her.

“ _We_ are excited and we don’t want to be late, or else all the good spots are going to be taken.” Says Katelyn, stealing his bread. Aaron shakes his head, fondly, and fails to remind her she was the last to wake up.

“Yes ma’am.”

Rachel tries to imitate him, but all that comes out of her lips is _mama_ , which isn’t that far off honestly.

“Hurry up, then.”

Aaron doesn’t need to be told twice and goes to pack up some stuff. He tidies the room, after, like he always does. He likes his things in their place, neat and piled. Neat and organized. When they first met, Katelyn used to make fun of him for that, she used to call him a ‘control freak’ and, for the first time, that word didn’t make his skin itch. He’s got their bags ready faster than expected, throws them into the trunk of their car and starts the air conditioning. The car is already burning, hot to the touch, there is no wind. No breeze. Aaron thinks this might be what suffocating feels like. And then Katelyn comes out, her hair is braided and she’s wearing a white sundress and she looks every bit the angel Aaron sees her as. Rachel moans in distress, arms extended to Aaron as they walk to him. Katelyn rolls her eyes.

“You’ll spoil her.”

“You’re jealous she likes me better.”

Katelyn smiles, “she does.” Then, to Rachel, “daddy has to drive, he’ll play with you later, alright?” It doesn’t stop her from making a fuss, but as they get into the car she slowly clams down.

The lake isn’t that far, maybe half an hour drive, and the car AC makes it so that Aaron barely wants to get out when they arrive. He does, though, and carries Rachel and greets a friend of Katelyn’s and helps her set their towels. He slathers sunscreen on his body like a second skin and lets Katelyn help him with his back. The sun is relentless, heavy and heavier and even heavier. Aaron’s breath feels stuck in his throat, he pushes it out and draws it back in, the air is syrupy. It’s tangible and it wraps around him like silk. He swallows.

“Kate,” he calls, “look after Rachel, yes? I want to go for a swim.”

“Sure.”

He stands and feels dizzy for a moment, specks of black float in his vision. Katelyn doesn’t notice, too busy with Rachel, and he steadies himself. The feeling of cool water on his feet feels almost impossible, a relief, the rushing of a breath he didn’t know he was holding. So he walks and he walks until the water reaches his waist, and then he swims. He’s never been particularly fond of swimming, he’s learnt how to do that late in life. As a child, he didn’t go out much and at school he had preferred playing basketball, even in high school when they teased him for being too short. Right now he’s swimming, though, and he’s venturing much farther than the buoys allow. As the water slides against his skin and sound vanishes, he wishes he could stay here the whole day. He wishes he could just fall down and down and down, his heart beats strong and steady against his chest. _Thud thud thud_. And then he registers the strain in his lungs and the water turning colder and swims up and up and up until he resurfaces. Gasping. Coughing.

“Aaron!”

It’s Katelyn’s voice, calling him from the shore. He swallows. And coughs a bit more, and wonders what the hell just happened. Then, he pretends nothing did.

“Aaron!”

***

There are some men on the towel in front of theirs, three of them and kind of loud. And a woman. They must be pretty much Aaron’s age, if not a bit younger. They brought a stereo with them, on of the old ones that only work with CDs. Katelyn points it out.

“I used to have one in college,” she says, “and luckily I think I lost all of my CDs.”

Aaron keeps cutting Rachel’s apple, she squeaks in delight as he hands her another slice. “Luckily?”

“Yeah, my music taste was horrible back then. I bet yours wasn’t much better since you still listen to Sum41.” Laughs Katelyn. It catches him by surprise, the memory of her coming back home unexpectedly as he was cleaning up the house and, well, blasting Sum41. It’s a nice memory, he remembers the teasing, he remembers laughing, feeling embarrassed in a good way.

“That was _one_ time.”

She smiles, knowingly. “Whatever you say.”

They fall into comfortable silence, Aaron keeps going through the motions of feeding Rachel. He keeps breathing deeper than usual, he keeps feeling –feeling a bit weird. Stretched thin.

“Look what I found.” It’s one of the men in front of them, tall and big. “This archeological find dates back to Neil’s college years, when he was in a _band_.” He’s funny, Katelyn besides him watches them and smiles.

“Oh God,” comes a second voice, “don’t do this, Matt.”  
The other guy just laughs, and presses play. Aaron stops. This music, this music he –there is something he can’t name. His heart beats faster. He is underwater all over again.

“Oh come on,” someone groans, “turn it off.”

Aaron watches and watches as they move in slow motion, as time stops. And this song, this fucking song –the redhead jumps on his friend’s back. He hits him.

“Turn it off.”

Someone laughs.

“No way.”

Aaron’s breath leaves him, he can’t feel, he can’t hear. The song, though, the song keeps playing and he knows it, he knows this song. The air is suffocating and that boy is hitting someone. _He knows this song_. Aaron hears the noise of skin hitting skin, he hears the thuds and someone screams. _He knows this song_. His mind goes blank, something spurts all over his face, someone comes crashing into him. He’s on the ground, there’s a body keeping him pinned and he can’t move he can’t move he can’t –and then everything comes into focus. His fingers let go of the knife, his body sags. The song keeps playing.

“Calm down, clam the fuck down.” It’s the guy with the stereo, the big one.

“Call an ambulance.” There’s screams. “Someone call an ambulance!”

Aaron looks around, his head feels heavy. He can’t breathe. Katelyn is holding Rachel, he sees her turning his neck and she looks –she’s looking at him and she’s horrified. His gaze moves to his hands, wrists held down by the guy still in top of him: they’re covered in blood.

“Let go of me.” He whispers. He can’t make his throat work, can’t make his voice –a baby is crying. It’s Rachel.

“Let go of me.” Louder.

“Are you done? Are you fucking done?”

Aaron doesn’t answer, the guy finally lets his wrists go. He gets up, looks down on Aaron, then looks behind his back, then looks at him again. His face scrunches up.

“What did you do?” Aaron doesn’t answer. “ _What did you do_?”

He knows what he’s done, he feels the blood on his skin, he sees the knife on the ground. He hears the sirens, sees the people looking at him. He sees Katelyn, takes a step forward. She flinches. He does as well. Aaron knows what he’s done: he got up, walked to those boys and stabbed one of them within an inch of his life.

He doesn’t know why.

***

The handcuffs don’t feel that heavy, he thought they would but they don’t. They sit on his wrists, he looks down and sees the guy’s hands on them, instead. Until they take them off, until he’s put there in front of a camera. The flash blinds him, he flinches. The blood on his hands and arms is crusted, he can’t stop replaying Katelyn’s look in his head. It’s there every time he closes his eyes, every time he blinks. Her hands around Rachel tightening. She wasn’t sacred, though, not of him. Another flash, this time he was expecting it. It doesn’t make him jump any less.

They interrogate him, he wasn’t expecting anything different. Aaron sits there, hands cuffed to the table, it’s cold. He’s been suffering the heat for the whole day, sweltering and suffocating, and now he can’t stop shivering. He can’t think and, at the same time, can’t stop remembering what he’s done. The man he attacked, his face is blurry, he sees red hair and pale skin and the rest is chaos. He can feel him, though, the sweat on his arms and he warmth of his blood and –and Aaron’s throat tightens. He hasn’t cried since he was a child, he feels like crying now. He has already confessed, when the police came to the lake to take him away. He did it all, he attacked that man. He killed him. He is dangerous, he is a monster.

_Did you take your pet monster with you?_

His head aches. Someone enters the room, a man, a cop. He’s tall and broad, no uniform, though.

“Hello Aaron, I’m detective Wymack.”

Aaron nods and doesn’t say anything back. The man sits in front of him, his jacket looks stifling for the weather but Aaron wishes he had something this warm right now. He shivers, again. The detective notices.

“They told me you confessed already.” Another nod. The detective looks at him for a long time, it feels infinite. Aaron can’t make himself hold his gaze, he keeps his eyes on the table and tries, tries as hard as he can, to stop the images swirling in his brain.

“Alright, listen up kid: they’re charging you with attempted murder, Neil Josten is currently hospitalized. He’s in a coma. ”

That one word manages to swim past the thick jelly taking up space in his brain. He’s not dead. He’s not dead he didn’t kill him he’s not –Aaron’s head snaps up, he meets the detective’s eyes, dark and considering. He doesn’t look like a police officer, his beard is scruffy and his uniform is rumpled. He knows that name, Wymack, he knows he’s the one who got Seth Gordon out of jail after the guy sold to a thirteen year-old, a thirteen year-old who overdosed. He knows why detective Wymack is here: Aaron is a lost cause.

“He’s not dead.” He says. The detective ignores him.

“You have a wife, a child and, yet, you’re refusing a lawyer.”

Aaron looks at him, keeps silent. He _is_ refusing the lawyer, he’s already confessed after all. He doesn’t deserve to be let out, what he did –what he did was –he can’t even make himself say it. The guy, Neil Josten, is in a coma. He didn’t kill him, he didn’t save him either. Aaron is a nurse, he spends his days helping people, watching doctors save lives, saving some of his own. Aaron is a nurse, a father, he isn’t someone who _stabs_ people. Or maybe he is. There’s this image that’s been playing in his head since they sat him on this cold chair: he’s at home and he’s peeling Rachel’s apple and, then, everything goes black and he’s standing over Katelyn’s body with blood dripping from his hands and someone’s crying and her eyes are dead open and –He gets lost for a second, then, his mother’s face staring at him from behind detective Wymack. She’s smiling, teeth yellow, a bruise on her face. She’s wearing her jean skirt and her red top, with the flowers and the sparkles. Skinny, just a he remembers her, small, just like him. And she’s watching him.

_The first hit never takes him by surprise, maybe that’s why it doesn’t hurt as much as the others. Her hand lands heavy on his cheek, it stings. She isn’t wearing any rings today, Aaron considers himself lucky. She hits him again, on the head this time, harder, and for a split second his vision darkens. He knows he makes a sound because she snarls at him to “shut the fuck up”, the can of beer she’s drinking drops to the floor with the movement._

_“Look what you made me do, you stupid brat.”_

_He says nothing, stays on the floor where he fell after the third hit. The beer spreading over the tiles reaches his legs and seeps through his jeans. He’s distantly aware of the blood dripping down his chin, another split lip, those are a bitch to hide. She doesn’t care, of course. If she did, she would have stopped hitting him when he started school. The only thing she cares about, the only thing saving him, is the sound of the door slamming open and yet another John walking into their house as if he owns it. They fuck in the living room and Aaron sits on the stairs and listens and holds ice to his mouth. His mind is empty, his fingers numb._

“I don’t want a lawyer.” Blurts out Aaron. He looks behind the detective, again, and finds nothing but a grey wall.

“You plead guilty and you could get a life sentence, if the court establishes it’s first degree. Tell me you understand that.”

It’s annoying, the way he’s treating him as if he’s not completely there, but it’s true. He knows he’s is shock. He feels it in his skin, the hypersensitivity, the cold. The goosebumps. His brain, short-circuited, syrupy. Slow.

“I do.” He grits out. The detective is incredulous, Aaron doesn’t really care. _I do, I know, I know, I know._ He knows. He knows he deserves to be put in jail, he knows he can’t go back to his family after what he’s done. He knows. He doesn’t know why, though. He doesn’t know why he’s done it and it’s making him go crazy. He feels dazed, out of it, and he can’t remember. He sees the whole scene as if he’s witnessing it from outside his own body, he sees himself jump onto that guy, he sees the blood. He feels the man’s hands on his wrists, he feels the handcuffs, the metal biting into his skin. It brings him back.

“I don’t want to talk anymore.” His head hurts. He thinks he’s said that too quietly, he thinks he mumbled it. He’s not really sure.

“Aaron,” says detective Wymack, “the hearing will be in a few days, I can’t help you if you don’t collaborate.”

He feels it, then, the laugh. It starts, nothing more than a rumble, in his gut, then spread to his lungs, chokes him as he spits it out. It scratches his throat, impatient, and tumbles out rough and strained.

“I don’t want your help.”

The detective says something else, then. He doesn’t listen. He doesn’t answer. He sits there, shivering, spacing out. And he thinks: I deserve this, I deserve this, I deserve this. And thinks: _why?_

**II**

David has a reputation in the county, a reputation he’s carefully built from the moment he was promoted a detective, a reputation for investigating lost causes. He isn’t a lawyer, he got a lot of people out of jail, people who were wrongly accused, whose actions fell into that particular grey area that someone has to paint black or white. He investigates, he finds out the truth and just -helps, that’s what he does, he helps. Aaron Minyard, though, is the most peculiar case he was ever assigned. The story is clear, the confession came out of the kid’s mouth the second handcuffs closed around his wrists. And there it goes, the oddness, the mystery of it all: why did he do it? The confession doesn’t exactly surprise him, the shock, the incredulity of the moment always have an effect on people. What he doesn’t understand is why Aaron Minyard won’t cooperate, won’t accept a lawyer and David’s help. He has a family, he is young, he is a nurse. And he wants to leave it all behind. It’s guilt, of course it’s guilt that’s dragging him down this road to the hang post, but what about sanity? And there it goes, there’s what David is going to do: he’ll ask for a competency evaluation, just to gain some time, just enough to make his own research. Just enough to understand. When he asked Aaron, in that cold, unforgiving room, why he’d attacked Neil Josten, he’d found himself on the receiving end of the most hopeless, confused, disappointed stare he’s ever seen. Aaron had said ‘I don’t know’. And that just won’t do, someone like Aaron Minyard, once again husband, father and nurse, doesn’t just randomly stab people to near death. There is something wrong with this, something that’s been twisting and turning in David’s stomach since he first saw the kid. Short, blond. Terrified of himself. 

Aaron Minyard doesn’t know Neil Josten, he has no idea who the man is, has never seen him before. It’s bullshit, that’s what David thinks. There is no way whatsoever that someone like Aaron Minyard could do what he’s done without a motive. Except Neil Josten seems to be a regular guy, he definitely doesn’t have a record. He was at that lake having fun with his friends and now the doctors don’t know if he’ll ever wake up. If what Aaron says is true, if he really never met Neil Josten before, then there must be something very wrong with him. Aaron is already punishing himself, not accepting a lawyer, pleading guilty from the very beginning, he’s doing everything in his power to be put away for good. No matter the fact that he has a family, a fulfilling job. Things just don’t make sense, not this time. David has worked a lot of cases, a lot of lost causes, but he’s never dealt with someone like Aaron. He can’t let go of him, of this case. When he goes back home, after interrogating Aaron, the case is the only thing he can think about.

“Are you going to help him?” Asks Abby. He sighs, sat on the bed, head in his hands. 

“I’m trying to, he won’t let me.” He feels her hand on his shoulder, warm and small. Familiar. Reassuring. 

“Do you want my opinion?” Of course he does, he doesn’t even have to say it out loud. He turns around, raises a brow, unimpressed. Abby smiles, she knows him better than anyone else. 

“I think,” she starts, “that he’s scared, scared of himself. And I think there is more than what meets the eyes.”

“It doesn’t make sense, none of it does.”

“Then find one, find a sense. It’s what you do best.” 

The next day David finds himself knocking on the Minyard’s door. Aaron’s wife looks awful, nobody would expect anything different from someone in her position. Her complexion’s washed out, her eyes bloodshot, hair messy. She realizes who he is the moment she opens the door, somewhere, a baby starts crying. She doesn’t curse, she just closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and opens them again.

“Come in.” She says, voice raspy, and disappears down the hallway. Aaron Minyard’s house is nice, classic, very tidy. David stands there just beyond the threshold, there are pictures on the wall lining the stairs, Aaron, his wife and their daughter in most, sometimes a few people David assumes to be their friends and family. Everything is very –normal. It’s just very normal, suburban. 

“Follow me.” It’s Aaron’s wife –Katelyn, David remembers –with a baby in her arms, eyes puffy and a runny nose. At least she’s stopped crying. “I’m sorry, it’s just me right now and I have to take care of her.”

“Of course.” 

They walk into the living room, Katelyn gestures at him to take a seat on the sofa as she settles on an armchair in front of him. The baby looks a him, head curiously tilted to the side. She doesn’t look like Aaron much, her colors are Katelyn’s and as for her features, only time will tell. 

“I’m detective Wymack, I’ve been assigned your husband’s case.” Starts David. “I’ve talked to him yes-” 

“You have?” She interrupts him. She looks distressed, a bit surprised. 

“I have,” he replies, slowly “haven’t you?”

Katelyn doesn’t answer right away, she looks at her daughter, bounces her up and down slightly. The baby stars playing with a strand of her hair, mesmerized and babbling softly. 

“He called. I –I couldn’t make myself answer the phone.” And there it is, the guilt.

“He might try again.”

“Yes,” she nods, as if convincing herself, “yes.” 

“Look, I know this is hard, but I need you to answer a few questions.” 

A deep sigh, then: “alright.”

“Aaron is a nurse, right?” He starts.

“Correct.”

“And you have a one years-old daughter, so, would you say he has a calm temperament?” Katelyn smiles, small and bitter. 

“He does, he’s very quiet. He used to –when I met him he was a bit of an asshole, excuse the language.”

“No worries.”

“But except for that he’s always been, well, quiet, that’s the word. Calm, yes, I guess.” 

That’s exactly what David expected, he’s met the man, he’s talked to him. The circumstances were certainly straining, exhausting, and Aaron look more frightened than anything else, but his demeanor was, indeed, quiet. He is someone who must have been called shy in school. 

“And what about lately? Was there something not quite right, was he behaving oddly?”

“I –I don’t know, I’m not sure. He’s always –he’s very reserved even with me, it takes him a while to admit something’s wrong.”

“And was there? Something wrong, I mean.” 

Katelyn starts crying, then, silent and controlled. Single, lonely tears travelling down her cheeks, her chin, splashing onto her daughter’s hand. 

“I don’t know.” She grits out, her words are strained. “I don’t know.” Again. 

This isn’t anything new, he’s seen people cry way harder than Katelyn is, desperate with pain, with grief. It doesn’t affect him any less. He’s used to it, after all this years, he knows how to keep his cool and reassure them. Still, he can clearly remember being twenty-five, fresh out of training, and watching Mrs. Jackson burst into tears after being told her son was murdered. 

“Hey, it’s alright. It’s alright if you didn’t notice anything different, it’s possible that there wasn’t. Aaron seems very –ordinary, what happened was random at best. It doesn’t really make sense, does it?” 

Her head snaps up, dark eyes staring straight into his.

“Exactly.” She says, pointedly. “None of this makes any fucking sense. Aaron would never, never-“ And then she stops herself short, because Aaron did. Aaron did. 

“Would you mind telling me what happened at the lake?”

She inhales, sharp, then nods, as if gathering herself. 

“Yes, alright. Uhm, we got there near ten, some people we knew were there as well.”

“Those boys?”

“No.” Katelyn shakes her head, brows furrowed. “No, I have no idea who those guys were, it was some people from the hospital. We just –we just spent the morning there, nothing special and then.” She stops, once again.

“Go on, Mrs Minyard.” 

“Sánchez.” She corrects him.

“Sorry?”

“Sánchez, I kept my surname when we got married. Anyway, then it was lunch time and Aaron was feeding Rachel her apple. He was -he was peeling it and those guys were getting a bit loud. One of them, uhm, he was big, black, he put on some song and Aaron just –he just _stopped_.” 

“What do you mean?” Presses David. She shrugs, looking a bit confused.

“I don’t know, it was odd. The moment he heard that song he just set the apple aside and got up and –well, you know what happened.” 

That’s something, that’s more than something. It’s almost as if Aaron was triggered. 

“I don’t like asking this, but what was it like, the attack?”

Katelyn doesn’t answer right away, she takes her time and David waits patiently. 

“You’ve seen Aaron, he’s small but the guy wasn’t much bigger than him. He had kind of, I don’t know, jumped onto the other guy’s back and Aaron just walked there and started –hitting him. He just kept going until the big guy stopped him and-“ Silence, Katelyn shifts her gaze somewhere behind Wymack’s shoulders, eyes unfocused. 

“What is it?”

She still doesn’t look at him when she says: “and then something strange happened.” Her words are slow, as if it’s something she’s just remembering, something she realized in this exact moment. “The guy had him pinned down and was telling him to stop moving, thrashing but Aaron –Aaron wasn’t trying to escape. He was trying to, to –it looked like hugging but that’s not quite right. He was trying to touch him, not hit him, and he was talking nonsense.” 

And then she does look at David.

“He kept saying: _you’re safe now, he can’t hurt you, you’re safe_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**III**

The trial comes and David is ready, the only thing he needs is more time. Aaron’s wife is there, along with her family. There is no trace of anyone seemingly directly related to Aaron, though, maybe that one woman could be his mother. But that is it, and that is something that needs to be looked into. David knows the judge, quite well, actually. After all, in a county this small it’s always the same people coming and going. Judge Matthews, though, owes him a favor and, sooner or later, he’s going to cash it in. Not today. Today he has a plan for when Aaron will plead guilty. He knows he will, there was no convincing him, no reasoning with him. Some part of David still hopes that seeing his wife there, seeing her like _this_ –with bags under her eyes and a look so distraught it makes her seem older- will be enough for Aaron to change his mind. But then again, he’s been at this for almost twenty years, he knows Aaron Minyard won’t put up a fight. He’s not the type. The hearing goes like all hearings do, not as long as one would expect but just as boring. A lot of formalities, a lot of particulars. The moment comes unexpected, bumping into someone turning the corner, dropping a glass of water. The shattering are the muffled gasps, the chocked cry of the woman David assumes to be Aaron’s mother. His wife, though, goes silent. And still. _How do you plead? Guilty_. One thing is certain, David is always right, it doesn’t help him make any sense of this, though. Why. Why, why, why. He hasn’t stopped thinking about Aaron Minyard since he was assigned the case. It doesn’t make sense, it never will. He’s prepared, though, has been prepared for this one moment since the interrogation.

David watches Aaron being escorted outside, handcuffs and greasy hair. Blank features and a redness in his eyes that shows weakness, shows he’s been crying. He watches his wife look at him, asking for an explanation with her eyes and receiving none. Not even a glance. He watches her features morph into anger and, then, disappointment. A hand lain on her shoulder, Aaron’s mother who, David realizes, is actually his mother in law. They all look astonished and David finds himself wondering if they’ve ever really known him, Aaron, the man who stabbed Neil Josten into a coma. The man who pleaded guilty because he’s scared of himself, of his own shadow. Because that’s what it is, that person on the beach is the darkest part of Aaron, something harboring in every person David has ever met. Kept under chains, under control. Something that managed to get away and escape Aaron’s steel. Why him?

David catches Judge Matthews in the parking lot, it feels like a last minute attempt because it is. Not unplanned, though, never.

“Hannah.” He calls out, she turns to look at him, exasperation already seeping through her look.

“What is it this time, David?” Her car keys dangle from her fingers, hitting the door handle. _Tin tin_. It’s hot, hotter than yesterday and David decided to forgo a tie. It doesn’t make the air any less suffocating.

“I want to postpone the next hearing.”

“Why would I do that? A white guy with a nice suburban life stabbed a man to death.”

“Technically, Neil Josten is in a coma.” She rolls her eyes, always a pleasant woman, Hannah Matthews. “And you said it, a white guy with a suburban life. A wife, a nice job, a kid. I want a competency evaluation.”

Judge Matthews looks at him, lips pursed. _Tin tin_.

“No, he already pleaded guilty, there’s nothing we can do.”

“This could change the cards on the table, Hannah. I can’t be the only one who thinks this is absurd, there’s something wrong with him. He might need psychological help.”

“He’s a grown-ass man, if he was mentally ill he’d already found out.”

“You know that’s not true.” For as good as a judge Hannah Matthews is, sometimes her stubbornness risks to bleed into unfairness. David tells her exactly that. A breeze of wind ruffles their hair, it’s hot and humid and does nothing to alleviate their suffering. _Tin tin_.

“Fine. Fine, we’ll commission a competency evaluation.” David doesn’t smile often, he does now. “This better be worth it, Wymack.”

“Yes ma’am.”

With this done and dealt with, David has some people to talk to.

***

They let him into Neil Josten’s hospital room without making much of a fuss, even if it’s not visiting hours. It’s not like he can talk to him, anyway, and that’s not what David wants to do. Neil Josten isn’t the person he’s looking for, Matt Boyd is. He finds him there, just like he expected, sat on a chair beside Neil Jostens’s bed. He’s startled, when David enters the room, and looks the same way Aaron’s wife did: worn out, hollow. 

“Hello?” His voice is raspy.

“I’m detective Wymack, I’d like to ask you some questions if you don’t mind.” 

Matt Boyd sighs, scrubs his hands over his face. He agrees, because he can’t exactly say no to the police, but won’t ‘do this’ in that room. David follows him to the cafeteria, watches him buy a watered-down coffee. It’s raining outside, those dark clouds are oppressive and the air is thick with humidity. The lights flicker rhythmically, the light is white and neon-like and everyone looks washed out. Matt Boyd takes a sip of his coffee, grimaces and sets the cup down with a frown. 

“This is terrible.” He says.

“I bet, never been a fan of hospitals myself.” Confesses David, something to help Boyd relax, make him comfortable. It’s always been a thing for him, remembering he’s dealing with people, not only witnesses. Some tend to forget that, in his line of work. 

“Go on, detective, ask what you have to ask.” 

Straight to the point, then, David can appreciate that. 

“How do you know Neil Josten?” It’s an easy enough question, something to get them going.

“We were in college together, roommates for freshman year and then, well, Neil fell into a crowd I wasn’t a fan of.”

“What do you mean?”

Boyd shrugs. “Nothing, really, just some people I didn’t like. We kept being friends, kind of, texting and seeing each other once in a while, but it wasn’t the same. A few years after graduating he showed up in town again and we got back in touch.” 

Here we go, finally something to work with. 

“You say ‘showed up’, had he been gone?”

“Yeah, he dropped out of college on the third year and moved back to Virginia. He didn’t give much of an explanation, but that’s Neil for you, I remember him saying something about family stuff but that was it. Even when he came back he never really talked about where he’d been, what he’d done for all those years. Honestly, I was just happy to see him again, I didn’t pry.”

Josten’s disappearance is a red flag, people don’t just uproot their lives like that without explaining themselves. Or maybe they do, maybe they even lie about it. Whatever the case is with Neil Josten, it’s a dead end on Boyd’s part. The guy doesn’t know much more and he clearly isn’t lying, David has been a detective for one too many years not to be able to smell bullshit one mile away. There is something else, though, that could turn into a lead.

“And those friends of his you mentioned, why didn’t you like them?”

The look Boyd gives him is uncomfortable, indecisive. Bingo.

“They were –intense, I only met them once or twice and I remember being weirded out because they dressed pretty much the same. I’m sure it was a fashion statement or something, but, honestly, they looked more like a cult. They did drugs, too, and that’s -that’s not something I’m comfortable with.”

“Why?”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess it doesn’t.” Concedes David, because it doesn’t. What really matters are these sketchy friends of Josten’s. “Do you remember their names?”

“No, Neil never mentioned them and, like I told you, we only met once or twice.”

Fuck.

“Were they friends from college or?” Presses David, holding onto this one last clue with his nails.

“I really have no idea, I’m sorry.”

Fuck. Fuck, this could have helped. Still, there’s nothing stopping him from investigating on his own, asking around won’t hurt. 

“Alright, don’t worry. Let’s talk about the day at the lake, yeah?”

The moment he brings up the beach, Matt Boyd seems to recoil. Just the slightest bit. _I know_ , David wants to say, he doesn’t. 

“We were just joking around. It was me, Neil, my girlfriend Dan and our friend Jeremy. I had found this CD from when Neil used be in a band back in college, I thought -I thought it would be funny. It was a joke, I put it on and me and Neil started, you know, wrestling a bit, just playing around. And then that guy just-“ He stops then, goes quiet. Nobody seems able to finish that sentence, to accept what Aaron Minyard has done. Nobody but Aaron himself, who said: _I stabbed him, I don’t know why._ Now, David has a few cards to play. 

“Can you describe Aaron Minyard for me?” He starts. Matt Boyd frowns at him, confused, but does as asked.

“Uhm, I don’t know, blonde, pale. Short, I guess.”

“There we go,” stops him David, “would you say Aaron Minyard is small?” Boyd goes rigid, his eyes narrow.

“Where are you getting with this?”

David doesn’t falter. “Would you?”

“Yes, yes I would.” Grits out Boyd.

“And you were right there, not even, what, six feet away?”

Tension is visible in Boyd’s body, his hands closed into fists, his jaw clenched. There we go, thinks David. He’s provoking him and he’s well aware of it, he just needs a few more carefully placed assumptions.

“What the hell are you trying to say?” Boyd’s tone is hard, his words clipped. He’s angry. Good.

“I’m saying you could have easily gotten him off of Neil Josten within two or three seconds, unless,” says David, “something stopped you.” 

Matt Boyd doesn’t hesitate.

“Look, Neil might be small as well but he can hold his own, he spars regularly with a friend of ours who teaches martial arts. There was no doubt he could have overpowered that guy the second he lay hands on him.”

“Then why didn’t he?”

Boyd looks at him, breath short. And looks and looks. 

“When the guy first attacked him, Neil turned to look at him and, and he just didn’t do anything, didn’t react.” A pause, then:

“He _recognised_ him.”

**IV**

Jail isn’t what he thought it would be, it’s mostly quiet, lonely. He minds his own business, the other convicts don’t bother trying to talk to him or involving him in their prayer groups. There are a lot of those, people pray a lot around here.

_You should thank God he’s still alive, ungrateful brat._

The quiet doesn’t really help, not when he has all the time in the world to think. He’s been doing nothing but thinking. Thinking and thinking and thinking. He called Katelyn again, this time she answered. He thinks he cried, hearing her voice, he doesn’t really know. The days pass in a blur, it’s something that hasn’t happened to him in quite a while, since he got out of –since _then_. It disconcerting, the way time passes him by and the only thing sticking to his brain is a pair of blue eyes. And blood. A lot of blood. She’s mad, Katelyn, she keeps asking him to explain, to tell her, to – _you can tell me anything, you know you can, honey_. He can’t, that’s the whole point. Because he doesn’t know. He feels numb, in a way, and then night comes and he swears he could die from the force of it all coming back. There is something wrong with him, there is something deeply wrong with him. He’s not surprised when they ask him to do a medical evaluation or whatever it’s called. The woman examining him, Betsy, asks questions that don’t really make sense. It would be pretty easy to lie, that’s what he means, any sane person could see where she’s going with this. Maybe that’s the point. When their session –he guesses –is over, she gives him a peculiar look. Something a bit disbelieving, considering, intrigued. He hates it.

The detective comes to see him again, Aaron didn’t expect anything different. They sit in a room away from the other convicts, Aaron has to wear handcuffs. He hates those, too, he can’t stop feeling that man’s hands on his wrists when they’re on, the warmth of blood on his hands, drying until crusted and itchy. The smell of it. Water turning pink under his feet.

 _Aaron, I need to throw up_.

He lifts his eyes from his wrists, meets detective Wymack’s. There’s something different in his look, this time. Something calculating, as far from pity as it could be.

“Your competency evaluation came out clear, Betsy said there is no trace of mental disorders, not even in your family history.”

“That’s good news, I hope.” Snaps back Aaron.

“Not quite. The thing is, you said you didn’t know Neil Josten and a person with no psychotic or sociopathic or whatever the hell tendencies doesn’t just go and stab random people. ”

Ah, there we go. He just won’t. Leave. Him. Alone.

“Why would you lie?” Insists the detective. He’s not lying, he’s not fucking lying, he just wants to be left alone. He just wants to get what he deserves. He has never asked for this, for this detective who plays Robin Hood and takes up lost causes. He just –he doesn’t want to be helped.

“I didn’t lie.” He says, at last. His voice sounds scratchy, it’s been a while since he’s spoken up.

“Then why did Matt Boyd tell me Neil Josten recognized you?”

And that, that just doesn’t make sense. That is just wrong. It’s his first reflex, reiterating what he’s already told the detective a dozen times, both him and the other police officers who asked. Both them and the psychiatrist. The words don’t come out, though, something oddly resembling survival instinct pushes them back down. If he lies, for real this time, if he comes up with something, maybe Wymack will finally let him be. Maybe he’ll be finally left alone to his misery and his fear. And his hatred, a hatred so strong it makes him want to hurt himself. And so, he says:

“I met him at a bar, on the weekend of the fourth of July 2015.”

Wymack sits up straight, there is something in his eyes that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but glee. Aaron’s stomach clenches.

“Only his name wasn’t Neil, it was Riko.” And that just –that just comes out. Because he didn’t mean it to, because he hasn’t thought about Riko in years. Why would he say that, why? He just blurts it out, the slide of that name wet and lubricated and –acrid.

“What do you mean?”

And, once again, Wymack’s voice brings him back. Right. He breathes in, deep, and gathers himself.

“His face was the same, but he told me his name was Riko. I was young, he was cool, charming. We spent the night drinking together, became kind of friends, I guess.” He stops, then, an image pushes and shoulders its way to the front of his mind. He needs to keep going, just one more effort and he’ll get Wymack off his back.

_There’s a man in front of the door, a silhouette. The light comes form downstairs, warm and yellow and the man extends an arm and says:_

_“Are you coming?”_

“What then, Aaron?”

He sucks in a breath, stuck halfway down his throat. His heart is beating wildly. There is something wrong, there is something fucking wrong with him, there is-

“And then we did drugs and I took too much, got fucked up, nearly overdosed. I don’t remember anything else, just waking up at the hospital.”

Wymack is stunned into silence. His brows furrow, he’s stopped scribbling in his stupid notepad.

“Which hospital?” If he could, Aaron would laugh. The detective doesn’t believe him, of course he doesn’t.

“I don’t remember.” Says Aaron, voice flat.

“You don’t remember.” Skeptical, once again, Aaron couldn’t care less. He just wants to go, he wants to get out of this fucking room. He wants to sleep, his head hurts. God it hurts so bad, a tiny scalpel hammering into his temples over and over and over and-

_Are you coming?_

“No, I don’t remember a fucking thing. I was recovering from a fucking overdose.”

“Hey, language.” Snaps Wymack, then, softer, “alright, is there anything else?”

“No.” And with that, Aaron leaves.

**V**

The first thing David does is calling every hospital within a ten miles radius from the town, of course, Aaron Minyard never stepped foot in any of them. It’s possible he used an alias, that he gave them a false identity out of fear. After all, Aaron was pretty young back then and a drug overdose is not exactly something to brag about to his mother. Just his mother, because apparently Aaron’s father was never in the picture, that’s what he said at least. David will need to talk to her, sooner or later, but not today. There is something not quite right with Aaron’s story, starting from the fact that Neil changed his name. Why would he do that? And if they met back then and, because of Neil, Aaron nearly overdosed, why wait so long for revenge? The attack at the lake doesn’t fit the narrative of an act of revenge, though. No, it’s a crime committed out of instinct, something mindless. Definitely not premeditated. It’s way more similar to other cases David has followed, crimes of passion mostly. Crimes of passion. Yes, that could be it. The fake name, Josten disappearing and showing up after years, a hidden relationship that went wrong. Maybe Aaron got jealous, seeing Josten with Matt Boyd, and just snapped. It does make sense and David needs some answers. The only person who seems to know Neil Josten intimately is Boyd, and he’s the person David calls.

“Hello?”

“It’s detective Wymack, am I disturbing you?” He definitely isn’t imagining the sigh coming from the other end of the line, well tough luck, David is only doing his job.

“No, no it’s fine.” There’s some rustling, the sound of a door slamming shut. Finally, David speaks.

“You said Neil recognized Aaron Minyard, but that he’d never talked to you about him.”

“Yes.”

There is no way to put this gently, David tries anyway. “Is it possible that, maybe, he _couldn’t_ talk to you about him?”

Boyd doesn’t answer right away, there’s a long silence and something tells David the meaning behind his words has been received.

“You mean like –you mean like they had an affair?” Boyd’s voice is incredulous, a bit mocking.

“He could have been ashamed,” replies David, “maybe still in the closet. Plus, Aaron Minyard is married, they would have had to keep it secret.”

Boyd laughs, then, this time whole-heartedly.

“No, that is not possible, Neil isn’t someone who cares about those things. He wouldn’t have been ashamed or whatever, especially when our group of friends is as queer as they come.”

“Yes, but there’s always the fact that Aaron is a married man.” He insists.

“Look,” sighs Boyd, “honestly Neil has never been interested in anyone, ever since college and even before that, I would guess. That’s just how he is. There was –there has only been one person, actually. Nobody knows much about it, what we know is that it didn’t last. Apparently, this person and Neil, they had this connection, something very strong.” He stops then, David can imagine him shrug. “It didn’t end well.”

 _Didn’t end well_. There are many, many things about Neil Josten that don’t add up. His past is a dark mess at best, his connection to Aaron gets more and more far-fetched and inexplicable with every lead David tries to follow. He’s missing something, that’s certain, and the fact that Aaron seems to keep lying to him doesn’t help one bit. It doesn’t help David, but it doesn’t help him either.

“What does that mean?”

“I really have no idea, they either disappeared or died.”

“I see, I’m sorry.” He mumbles, but his mind his already elsewhere. It’s time to see Aaron again and, this time, he’s not going to be lied to. This time, he’s going to use every trick in the book. He supposes he could let go, let Aaron pay for his crime and rot in jail, but there is something in his case that keeps dragging him in. He can’t stop thinking about it.

“One last thing, can you tell me the name of that song you played at the lake?”

Boyd does and the call disconnects. This time, he’s going to get his answers.

As he drives, David can’t exactly wrap his mind around Aaron’s thought process. The fact that he lied to him, blatantly and unthinkingly, is a bright, bold red flag. Except that his competency evaluation came out just fine. Except that David has been excusing him because of the shock, because of the guilt. Outright lying about knowing Neil Josten, though, takes it a step too far. If David has to bring out the artillery, he will. Because Aaron Minyard doesn’t get to leave his family behind without an explanation and David isn’t one to easily give up. Not in this case, not when he feels the excitement, the adrenaline of it all buzzing under his skin, he’s been feeling it since the beginning. There’s the thing about this job: it’s addicting. And it’s disappointing, most of the time, and unfair and dangerous and hard on your body as much as it on your mind. And there’s nothing David would rather do.

When he meets Aaron, this time, he asks for his cuffs to be removed. The look Aaron gives him is suspicious, diffident, as it’s always been. It seems engraved in his features, distrust. He looks like someone who doesn’t do well with people, the fact that he’s willing to leave behind the only person he connected with is unbelievable. He’s abrasive when he asks what the hell David is doing there, again. Only this time, David is quite mad as well.

“I’ve checked every hospital nearby, there is no record of Aaron Minyard being recovered.”

“I gave them a fake name, I was ashamed.” Answers Aaron right away.

“You didn’t, I checked that, too. When your name didn’t come up, I asked for every overdose case that arrived that night and early morning. It was the fourth of July, but overdoses in this area aren’t so frequent, there were some women and a few men over thirty. You didn’t overdose that night, Aaron.”

There’s silence, then, and Aaron won’t look him in the eyes. He keeps fiddling with the hem of his sleeve, dragging it over and over his wrist. He’s nervous, the signs are clear, but there is something else about him. He’s tired, that kind of bone-deep tiredness that lets every nerve of your body out and open and easily touched. Just one word and Aaron Minyard could shutter, now.

“I didn’t.” He says, at least.

“Then what happened that night, Aaron? I’m just trying to help you.”

“I don’t want your help!” There it is, the burst. “That’s why I told you I met Neil Josten in that bar, so you could get off my fucking back. I’ll tell you for the last time: I have no idea who Neil Josten is, I’ve never met him before in my life and-“

And then he stops. He just stops, his eyes go distant, he looks a bit lost. Just sitting there, hands on the metal table, face white. Like he’s seeing a ghost. Like he’s remembering something. It’s time.

“Then why would you make up all that stuff about this Riko guy?”

Aaron’s head snaps up, his eyes turn to Wyamck’s. They’re wide, wide and brown and –and confused. Unfocused. There’s a line etched on his forehead.

“Because he was there.” It comes out of his mouth as a whisper, something pushed out in a wheeze. “He was there.”

“This story keeps changing Aaron, you have to tell me the truth.”

“The truth is that night I was with Riko, I didn’t overdose but we still –we got high. Partied.”

And that just makes him sigh, they’re back to square one. They’re back to Aaron not knowing Neil Josten and nothing makes sense. It has never made sense, but just for one afternoon there was this spiral of light, this rope dangling in front of David. And now it’s gone. And Aaron won’t collaborate.

“So you mean to tell me you were at the lake and you just went bat-shit crazy and stabbed a man you didn’t know?”

“I don’t’ know how many times I have to tell you this: yes, yes that’s what I did.” He seems to be back to his unpleasant self, all gritted teeth and annoyed voice. It makes David angrier, or maybe anger isn’t the right word for it. Maybe it’s frustrating him.

“You know you stabbed him five times, right? Five. Times.”

“Don’t say that.” Winces Aaron, and just like that he goes meek again. As if on instinct. As if someone raising his voice at him just has that effect. David doesn’t stop.

“Twice in the back, twice in the chest. One in the shoulder, you just missed his throat for a few inches.”

“Stop it.”

“You could have killed him, he could be-“

“Stop it!”

The phone is heavy in his hands, heavier than it’s ever been. Maybe because this time he’s going to do something he’s not supposed to. David doesn’t need to be a psychiatrist to know a trigger when he sees one. Aaron is still breathing heavily when he presses play and the intro to that one song echoes in the room. Aaron goes still, rigid like a corpse. He’s face whitens even more, David didn’t think it could be possible.

“Turn it off.” If he’d been screaming just a few seconds ago, now he’s just whispering.

“They were playing this at the lake, they were just having fun. “ Shrugs David. “It was just a prank on Neil Josten. And you heard it-“

“Please turn it off, please-“

“-and you got up-“

“Turn it off!”

“-and you stabbed Neil Josten into a coma.”

Aaron Minyard is a small man, short, not particularly muscled. Still, the moment his body collides with David's, he goes sprawling on the floor. It all becomes a blur then, David feels the hits and the heavy breathing and, even though he could easily overpower him, he doesn’t stop Aaron. He doesn’t need to do anything, the guards are there in a matter of seconds, but it’s not fast enough and David knows he’s going to sport some nasty bruising after this. Aaron gets dragged away, still kicking and thrashing, and nothing changes. The reaction David got out of him did absolutely nothing to trigger the truth out of him. Talk about unconventional methods. The only thing he succeeded in doing is driving back home with a stiff back and being on the receiving end of Abby’s disappointed look.

“Let me see.” She says.

“It’s fine, just a bit sore.”

She doesn’t say anything, just looks at him dead in the eyes. David sits down and takes off his shirt. The bruises have already formed, Abby’s hands are cold and gentle as she holds ice to the darkest ones and applies some sticky cream that’s meant to help the healing of his body. He likes that she always explains what she’s doing, she did that when he first met her, too. When he got sent to the hospital with a nasty cut on his arm and Abby started stitching him on two instead o three. 

“We’re done.”

David nods, thanks her. He watches her back as she cleans up her stuff and stands, barely suppressing a wince. The moment he’s on his feet, the mirror on the wall reflects his battered body back at him. He ghosts a hand on his chest, over blue and green and- and turns around. And sees two more bruises on his back. He goes back and forth and they’re all there, he isn’t imaging things. There are two bruises on his chest, two on his back. One on his shoulder. They’re in the same, exact places where Neil Josten has been stabbed.

David doesn’t believe in coincidences.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Aaron start fu***** cooperating? Read to find out ;)

That night, David doesn’t sleep. He lays on his bed, Abby by his side, and stares at the ceiling until his eyes burn and prickle. Every time he closes them, he sees the pattern. The pattern that changes everything, because now there are no more excuses. Now, it is clear that something buried in Aaron’s mind, in Aaron’s past, is what triggered his attack. An attack that isn’t anything new, those moves live in and feed off his memory. It means something like this has happened before, but when? When did Aaron’s hands and arms followed that same pattern, when did he feel the need to hurt another person like that? And then, the million dollars question, the question nobody can answer, not even Aaron himself: why? If David is to investigate Aaron’s past, he might as well start at the beginning.

Aaron’s childhood house is ugly, there is no other way to describe it, and old. Ugly and old and looks as if even the slightest breeze could tear it down. The garden is wild, grass yellow and dry, tall. The porch is missing a few wooden tiles, there’s an old, rusty dream-catcher hanging just before the door, it would be dangling if there were even the slightest bit of wind. There isn’t, though, it’s unforgivably hot, sweat dampens David’s forehead, the back of his neck. He knocks. Tilda Minyard would look a lot like Aaron, if it weren’t for the heavy signs of old age and a life lived carelessly etched into her features. She’s short, skinny, her arms look wiry and her tank top shows the prominent bones of her chest. It’s dirty, notices David, more yellow than white.

“What do you want?” She’s harsh, has the voice of a smoker. Her lips are painted, but chapped, and her eyes are too. Black smudged under her lashes, it looks like the hot weather has melted her make-up irrevocably.

“My name is David Wymack, I’m a detective.” He doesn’t miss the way she goes wary, at that, the step back she takes. The way the door closes just the slightest bit. “I’m not here for you,” he clarifies, “I’m here to ask about your son.”

At that, she laughs. Her teeth are yellowing, her wrinkles more evident with the motion.

“Y’all never give up, do ya? I told you everything all those years ago and I’ll tell you again, it’s not my damn fault the kid died. What else could y’all possibly wanna know?”

For a moment, David thinks he’s got the wrong house, the wrong person. He even takes a step back, checks the number of the door. It’s the right one, the right address, and this woman definitely looks like Aaron Minyard’s mother.

“I’m talking to Tilda Minyard, right?” The woman looks at him like he’s dense, and a bit weird.

“Yeah, who else would you be talking to?”

Tilda Minyard’s words don’t make sense, then, or maybe they’re the key to finally understanding more about Aaron’s past. Could it be possible that his own mother thinks Aaron is dead? Could it be possible that the reason for his madness is hidden in this very house?

“Ma’am, Aaron is not dead. I’m here because he’s about to face a trial for attempted murder.”

Tilda doesn’t bat an eyelid. “That ungrateful brat, I always knew he was gonna be more trouble than he’s worth. Of course he’s not dead, he left this house, left me and his brother behind. If you ask me, it’s his fault his brother died, couldn’t bare being separated from him.”

His bother. His brother, who died. Aaron has never mentioned a brother, it didn’t come up, of course, and it wasn’t relevant to whatever happened ad the lake. But maybe it is, maybe it’s another piece of the puzzle.

“I’m sorry, you said Aaron had a brother?” Once again, Tilda throws him an annoyed look. She purses her lips, looks him up and down.

“Come in,” she says, head gesturing behind herself, “this is gonna take a while.”

Inside, the house is just as ugly as it is outside. The wallpaper is old, washed out, the furniture is deteriorated, mostly broken or barely stuck together. It smells stale, like smoke. It’s no surprise when Tilda leads him into the living room, sprawls on the sofa and lights a cigarette. David takes his seat on the armchair in front of her, the glass table between them is cracked.

“You don’t know ‘bout Andrew, do you?” David nods. Tilda takes a drag, then sighs deeply. “I had the twins very young, I just couldn’t take care of ‘em. Didn’t have the right job, the father fucked off God knows where. Whatever,” another drag, “I put them both into the system, some rich family would give them a better life than I could, but then, ya know, I’m a catholic, the Lord wouldn’t have wanted me to abandon them. Still, two damn kids is a lot, I couldn’t afford ‘em. I thought maybe one could be enough.”

David knows he must look disbelieving, shocked, but Tilda doesn’t notice, too caught up in her story. Her cigarette keeps burning, the cross on her neck shines.

“So I took Aaron back, he was a good kid at first, got into some trouble in middle school, that’s just what boys do. But then Andrew came and Aaron turned out to be just like his damn father.”

“What do you mean, Andrew came? Didn’t you leave him with social services?”

Tilda laughs, points at him with two fingers, her cigarette in between them. “This, mister, is a story of a kind.” She drawls. “When the twins were fourteen, this police officer saw Aaron at a baseball game and mistook him for his brother. Of course that got me a lot of trouble, the kid just wouldn’t shut up about him. Andrew this, Andrew that. Where’s Andrew, why did you leave him. Blah blah. I had to tell him the truth, couldn’t lie about that anymore, the Lord wouldn’t forgive that.”

On the wall behind her there is a wooden crucifix, it’s big, noticeable. Tilda continues.

“Eventually, I told him he could try and talk to this brother of his, he could even come to stay with us for a few days in the summer.” There’s an underlining pride in her voice, as if she did something remarkable, something good. “But Andrew didn’t give a shit, he was already trouble, that boy. Ended up in a fight not even two weeks after Aaron sent him his second letter, almost killed a man with a damn knife. That family he was staying with, the Spears if I remember right, got him into some kind of medical facility for a year.”

“Why not jail?” Asks David.

“I don’t have a damn clue, if you asked me, he deserved some good old-fashioned juvenile time. Maybe it would have straightened him up. This family of his, though, they had money, they were important people and pulled some strings. Fucking privilege.”

“Is that what you think affected Aaron’s behavior? Knowing his brother was a criminal?”

She laughs at that, bitter and scratchy. “Oh no, no no. It started when Andrew came to live with us. He got out of that facility on the condition that he’d take some meds and come back to us, to his _real family_.” It’s mocking, the way she says those last two words. “Aaron was exited, me? Not so much.”

“Why?”

She gives him a pointed look, lips pursed. “Well, you try having a criminal inside your house mister.”

“Did he cause trouble?”

“Nah, those meds he had to take fucked him up. He was very weak, could barely stand, always laying in bed. He threw up a lot, talked nonsense.”

It takes David a second to assimilate that, he thinks about a fifteen year-old boy stuck in bed, thinks about someone who looks exactly like Aaron vomiting into a bucket as Tilda looks at him with disgust. His stomach clenches.  


“You didn’t say anything?” He asks, careful.

“Honestly, better him being like that than out and about stabbing people.”

And that, that makes sense even if it shouldn’t. It makes sense coming from Tilda’s mouth, who couldn’t care less about that boy when he was only one day old, much less at fifteen. There is no reasoning with someone like her, David has no intention of wasting time trying to do that.

“You said he died.” He says.

Tilda goes quiet, then. She straightens up, subtly, her cigarette balanced on the edge of the ashtray, long forgotten. She scratches her hair, then her chest, then goes back to laying on the sofa.

“He and Aaron became very attached,” she says, “Andrew was already weak and after Aaron left he got real bad. He didn’t make it, the Lord punished my boy like that. For what he’d done, for leaving us.”

There isn’t much to say about that, Tilda doesn’t care to know about what Aaron has done, she answers a few more questions about his life but nothing is note-worthy. He went through a rebellious phase once his twin brother came living with them, nothing unexpected, especially in this kind of absurd situation. It’s understandable, it doesn’t mean anything, David himself used to be quite the troublemaker before he got into the academy. This whole long-lost-twin story is certainly shocking, but it leads nowhere. The poor kid died, that could have taken its toll on Aaron’s psyche, especially since they were apparently very close, but it doesn’t justify what he’s done. Not when his competency evaluation came out just fine. Not when years and years have passed since then. One thing is for sure, Aaron Minyard didn’t have an easy life.

**VI**

There is an entire shelf filled to the bream with bottles. Their colors are bright, green and red and yellow, and they’re so, so many. There is someone behind him, Aaron feels his presence like an omen. Like a shadow, he sees it stretch on the wall, the shape of a man obscuring bottle after bottle until it shifts into a silhouette. A man, framed by the arch of a door. The light is soft, yellow, coming from behind him and turning his features undistinguishable. There’s music playing, _thud, thud, thud_. A hand extended.

_Are you coming?_

The bottles crash, one after the other. And they don’t stop. Bottle after bottle after bottle, they fall onto the floor, they shatter. The glass is sharp and pointed and it’s red, red with blood. The noise, the noise keeps coming and amplifying. Crash after crash after crash. There’s something wet falling down his neck, he dips his finger into his ears. They come away drenched in blood. And the noises don’t stop. It’s unbearable. _Crash, crash, crash._ It’s loud, echoing, cacophonous and blood keeps pouring from his ears. It’s so much, _too_ much. He can’t stand it anymore, it builds and builds and he feels like he’s going to burst from it and-

And Aaron wakes up in his bed, he wakes up in jail, drenched in sweat. He doesn’t realize he’s screaming at first, he feels caught on an edge, one foot still in his dream. He’s being pulled both ways, as his brain tries to rationalize. And then his roommate comes into focus, he’s shouting at him and Aaron realizes he’s screaming as loud as he can. He can’t stop, the crashing still echoes in his ears and he can’t bring himself to check if the blood was real. It wasn’t. He’s thrashing, he’s kicking and out of it. He finds himself on his feet, banging on the door. The room is too small, it’s too small and bottles keep crashing in his head. He needs to go out, they need to let him out right now. He can’t breathe, he feels his heart going a hundred miles per hour, it’s beating so hard and strong it might bruise his chest. It might _come out_ of his chest. Something hits the floor with a loud thud, a body. He doesn’t know if it’s real or if it’s all still in his head.

The door coms open under his weight, where he’d thrown himself at it in hope that it’d fall down. He ends up on the floor, but he’s outside of that room, he’s outside, he’s outside. There’s hands on him now, on his legs and his arms and his chest. They just won’t. Stop. Touching. Him. He knows he should calm down, he knows he’s kicking out his legs, instead, that he’s trying to evade their grip. He just can’t seem to have control over his body. And the noise. The noise is still there. The crashing as the bottles fall one after the other. He’s still screaming. He screams and screams and screams until someone pushes up his sleeve, there’s a look on the face of the man with a needle between his fingers. Aaron knows he’s looking at his scars, raised and white and ugly. He stops just for a split-second, but then Aaron manages to kick someone in the ribs and the needle is promptly pushed under his skin. Everything goes black.

***

Katelyn comes to see him, the day after. He refuses. Something twists in his stomach at the thought of leaving her hanging, something acrid and corrosive. It’s for the best, that’s what he’s been telling himself since that day at the lake. Every time she calls and he keeps silent, just listening to her voice. Every time she comes to visit, and he denies her. He doesn’t know why she keeps bothering with him, he has always wondered why someone like Kate would settle for someone like him. He still remembers her sat at the diner table, asking for her black coffee and that one pastry, the one with the strawberries. The sweat on his back, under his grey t-shirt, the drafts of cool air from the AC chilling his bones every time he passed by her table. Her white sundress turning into a soft sweater. Her smiles, asking for him, asking him out. Spilling coffee on the table, _who, me?_ _Yes,_ a laugh, _you_. It’s for the best.

He’s not even surprised when detective Wymack comes see him, unfortunately, he can’t refuse _him_.

“They told me what happened.” He says, without even greeting him first. Aaron isn’t sure if he likes this about him, the fact that he doesn’t bother with conventional, polite bullshit, or if it makes him hate him even more. “I’m very mad they haven’t noticed before.”

“Noticed what?”

Wymack looks at him dead on, relaxed, unhurried. “Your scars.”

_“Your scars, why didn’t you tell me?”_

_“None ‘f your business.”_

_He watches as Andrew struggles to sit up, his body weak and slim but still too heavy for him. He’s never seen him any different, since the first time they met Andrew has always been like this: stuffed to the brim with meds that make his life a non-life. He can imagine him, before, he just needs to look in the mirror, they’re identical after all. The first thing he thought, seeing Andrew’s scars, was that maybe he couldn’t stand it anymore. Living in this room, in this bed, the pain, the loneliness, and Aaron hated him, for a second he hated him so much he thought he’d burst with it. And then reason found him and his temper subsided, because those scars were far older than the months Andrew‘s spent with them. A sound comes from the bed, a chocked whine Andrew will hate himself for letting out, as he struggles with his own body and his own weakness. Sometimes, Aaron still hates him. He watches and watches and thinks that if Andrew wasn’t a bad person, this wouldn’t be happening and he would have a normal brother. It feels like hours, his eyes on Andrew’s hands as the slip into the sheets, as his forehead begins to cover with sweat. It’s not hours, it’s just a few seconds. Because Aaron recoils, recoils from himself, from his own thoughts, and helps him up._

_“I can do it.” He whispers, voice scratchy and barely there. He must have thrown up this morning, too, when Aaron was at school._

_“I’m sure you can.”_

_He knows he’s rolling his eyes, Andrew doesn’t exactly smile, never, but the way the muscle in his cheek twitches gives him away._

_“Stop evading my questions.” Of course, Andrew doesn’t listen to him._

_“What-“ Voice leaves him, he gestures to the nightstand, a glass of water perched on top of the Bible. Aaron gets it for him, his fingertips brush against the cover of the book. It’s rough, the texture familiar, the same as every night when he kneels by Andrew’s bed and prays. Tilda watches from the door, she can never bring herself to enter the room, it’s almost as if she’s scared of it, or what’s inside. Who’s inside. She needs to make sure he’s being a good Christian, though, so she stands there high and drunk, swaying back and forth, and Aaron prays and Andrew watches her like a hawk._

_“What’d you do at school today?”_

_Aaron whines lightly. “Come on, Andrew.” He feels his brother’s hand on his wrist, no matter how much he tightens his fingers the touch is always barely there. Reluctantly, Aaron looks at him._

_“Tell me.” Says Andrew, his eyes, the same as Aaron’s, staring into his. Aaron holds his stare, knows how to spot that almost imperceptible bit of desperation behind his look, knows that if it weren’t for him Andrew wouldn’t even bother living like this. Living at all. Sometimes it’s scary, thinking about how much he got attached to this boy, this stranger, this brother of his, in only a few months. Maybe it really is a twin thing, whatever it is, it doesn’t change the fact that Aaron would do anything for him. And Andrew is looking at him, and begging him without begging to let him live through his stories. Aaron wets his lips and starts speaking_.

“You didn’t tell me you had a brother.”

That one last word, when coming from detective Wymack’s mouth, startles him back into the present.

“What?”

“I spoke with your mother yesterday, she told me about Andrew. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Aaron finds himself a bit taken aback, the memory of Andrew and their room, of the warm light of their lamp, of the bare walls and the window Andrew could never reach, are a hand tugging at the back of his head, tugging him down, down, down.

“Because there is nothing to say.”

Wymack looks at him with furrowed brows, something a bit too much akin to pity in his stare.

“He’s dead.”

“I’m aware.” Bites back Aaron, voice strained.

“Right,” sighs the detective, “right, I guess it doesn’t really have to do anything with this.”

“Exactly.” Aaron feels on edge, just like he always does when he’s remembering. When the world turns hazy around him and lines blur into one another, when he looks in the mirror and sees Andrew’s white face, the bags under his eyes. Sometime he has nightmares, sometimes he dreams of staring into the mirror and seeing Andrew staring right back at him, opening his mouth and coughing out blood. And chocking.

“Does Katelyn know about the scars?” Asks Wymack, Aaron’s breath catches in his throat.

“She’s seen them.” He says, a bit meek.

“But does she know how you got them? Because I do, I’ve seen that type of scars before.”

Aaron feels his breath become heavier, his throat closes up. This fog in his mind –in his brain –just won’t clear, it’s been there since, well, since _then_. He knows Wymack won’t leave him alone, he knows he might as well just tell him the truth. He’s going to tell Katelyn anyway, and Aaron will not only be a monster in her eyes, but a junkie as well. And Rachel won’t remember him any other way. It makes his stomach clench, he hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday, he feels like throwing up anyway.

_Aaron, I need to throw up._

“I won’t tell her, but you should.”

“What?”

“I won’t tell your wife, whatever you’ll say to me is between us.” Explains Wymack. Aaron doesn’t exactly believe him, but he’s tired. He’s so, so tired.

“You’ve spoken to my mother, was she high?” When Wymack doesn’t answer, Aaron continues. “She’s always been a junkie, I don’t remember a time in my life she wasn’t high or drunk. When I turned seventeen, I started taking some of her pills, just for fun, and Andrew hated it. I didn’t –I didn’t care how it made him feel, I kept doing it anyway and as years passed it got even worse. I don’t remember. I really –there’s this hole in my brain, I don’t remember much of that time.”

The detective’s eyebrows are furrowed, he’s leaning on the table, just slightly, just enough for Aaron to notice he’s interested.

“What do you mean, you don’t remember?”

Aaron shakes his head, shrugs. “I know it got bad, that I started taking whatever it is she was taking. That I became just like her. One day I just –I just woke up in the street.“ He stops, then, the words feel stuck in his throat. He feels like crying. “I woke up in the middle of the street and I couldn’t –I just couldn’t remember anything that had happened before. I couldn’t. I was so scared, someone took me to a rehab clinic, they told me I still had –that I still had heroin in my system. And I remember being so, so disappointed, so scared.”

“You don’t remember getting to that street?” Asks Wymack. Aaron looks at him and knows he has lied, he knows he’s done nothing but lie to this man, but. But. But this is the truth, this has always been the worst truth of his life. The moment he got out of the clinic, clean, was the moment he turned into a new Aaron, the moment he left his past behind. It just won’t let go of him, though, the past. It keeps running after him, trying to catch him and drag him back down where he belongs: the gutter.

“I don’t even remember anything before that. The last thing I remember is-“

_A man, a silhouette. A hand extended. Are you coming?_

“It’s the fourth of July. Being at the bar with Riko, drinking. When I woke up in that street it was August, I’d lost an entire month.”

Wymack goes rigid, something is clicking inside that brain of his.

“You think it was Riko that drugged you?” He asks, carefully.

“No,“ he shakes his head, “no we didn’t do that stuff together, I’m sure of it, it was mostly coke with Riko.”

“Aaron, something must have happened to you. Someone must have-“

“Nothing happened to me! I was a fucking junkie, alright? I did it all myself, I took my mother’s stuff. I might not remember what happened that year, but she did all kinds of things, she must have done that, too. It was all my fucking fault.”

His heart is beating hard, his breath coming out fast. He knows his fingers are clenched around the edge of the table, he knows his chest is rising and falling, that his eyes must be wild. He’s angry, he’s angry with himself and Wymack does nothing but stare at him. Long and hard, face blank.

“Alright, “he says, “alright. Do you remember what clinic you recovered at?”

**VII**

Something isn’t adding up. A lot of things aren’t adding up, actually, but the news about Aaron’s drug addiction and recovery are the cherry on top of this whole mess. There is no doubt that it all comes down to that night. The fourth of July. Riko, Neil, Aaron. They must be all linked, somehow, by that one night. And whatever happened isn’t lost to the past, no, the memories are buried in Aaron’s mind. Veiled, confused, but they are there and David will do everything in his power to bring them up again. Aaron Minyard might be a killer, almost, he might deserve every single year of his sentence, but this case will be solved. No matter what.

David doesn’t waste any time driving forty minutes to the clinic Aaron pointed him to, a place where he might find some answers. What really interests him is the man who brought Aaron there, Wymack suspects he must be somehow connected to Riko. There has to be a logical thread between what happened to Aaron and this Riko guy, who David will have to interrogate sooner or later. The excuse to do that might present itself right now.

“Minyard, you say?” Asks the woman behind the desk, he nods. She keeps scrolling on her computer for a few seconds, then recognition washes over her face.

“Oh yes, I remember this one. It was, uhm” a pause, “2015, right?”  


“Yes, ma’am. Why is it that you remember Aaron, you seem to have a lot of people coming and going around here.”

“Yeah, well, he was different.” David gestures for her to continue. “This is a state facility, the people we recover here, they’re mostly homeless drug addicts. It means they’re always dressed in rags, dirty, they smell. Aaron, though, Aaron got here clean.”

“He said he woke up in the middle of the street.” If what this woman is saying is true, which it must be, then the person who brought Aaron to the clinic must have taken care of him. Who brings a drugged stranger into their house and cleans them up, before even taking them to the hospital?

“I don’t know sir, he got here perfectly clean. His hair was washed, his wounds stitched and healed, he was even wearing new clothes, I remember because I was the one who cut off the tags.”

His wounds. What kind of wounds is she talking about? She might be referring to the scars on his forearms, those he got from the needles, but that sounds unlikely since Aaron himself admitted to still having heroin in his bloodstream when he was recovered. When he asks the lady for an explanation, she can’t give him a straight answer.

“I’m sorry, it was a long time ago, I can’t remember.” She says.

“It’s fine, don’t worry. What about the man who brought him in, did he leave a name or something?

The woman nods. “Yes, he was registered. His name is James Rhemann, do you need an address or phone number?”

Bingo. Twenty minutes later, David is knocking on his door. James Rhemann’s house is in a bad neighborhood, but its garden is well kept, the walls are freshly painted. There is a rocking chair on the patio. James Rhemann himself looks like any regular man, grey hair, dark skin and quite a few too many wrinkles. He’s tall, but age made him slouch.

“Good afternoon Mr. Rhemann, I’m detective Wymack.”

“Did something happen?” Asks the man, voice low and raspy.

“No sir, everything is fine. I don’t know if you heard the news, but I’m investigating what happened at the lake last week.”

The man’s face scrunches up. “Oh, yes, I heard. Terrible, terrible. I remember that boy, that’s why you’re here, right?” David nods. “Yeah, poor kid. One morning I got out to the yard, just like every other day, and there he was. Poor thing, laying in the middle of the street, could barely talk. You’ve seen the neighborhood, I checked for track marks first thing first, got him into the car and brought him to the clinic.”

“So he was already dressed when you saw him?”

“He was, I remember, brand new clothes. Different from any other addict I’ve seen around, he was half delirious, kept mumbling incoherent stuff, but he looked very clean.”

Another near miss, another lead taking him just a few inches to the left. If James Rehmann isn’t the one who cleaned Aaron up, someone else must have. Where was Aaron before, if he was barely conscious, who took him to that ally? The month that went by from the fourth of July up until that day holds the truth and it’s nothing but repressed memories. Aaron thinks it’s the drugs’ fault, his own fault for taking them. He thinks he spent those days in a haze, burning neuron after neuron until all there was left is a wide, blank hole. It’s not right, though, instinct tells David there has to be more.

He thanks Rehmann after asking a few other questions, no relations whatsoever to Riko come up, this is simply an old man living his monotonous life. David believes him. Still, watching yet another lead trail into nothing feels like a jab. He feels young, very young. Fresh out of the Academy, following mentors around like a lost puppy. David made a reputation of his own, though, and he’s going to keep his head held high. Starting now, as he walks away from Rehmann’s house, reaching for his car keys and –and stopping short. There are two shadows hidden in a narrow ally siding the street, two bodies on the pavement covered by rags and holed, dirty blankets. David can’t say if it’s two men or women, or both. They look skinny, they look weak. He watches and thinks: is this what Aaron was like? Has he ever been like this before getting cleaned up? But then his eyes fall onto those two people’s feet and what he finds there changes everything, because what he finds there are needle punctures. Tiny and scattered and, probably, infected. They’re on their hands as well, feet and hands and Aaron, Aaron has no scar in either of those places.

***

He shows up to the facility late at night, but he has no time to waste. The main room is dark, there’s a few flickering lights here and there, but the atmosphere isn’t eery. It feels quieter, more intimate. It’s preferable to the noise and chaos of the day, the lack of privacy, the risk that anyone could be eavesdropping on their conversation. David hopes Aaron appreciates it, but from the look on his face the moment he sees him sitting at the table, it’s evident he’d rather be anywhere else.

“You, again.” He sighs, sitting heavily on the bench in front of David.

“Me, again. I went to the rehab center you recovered at,” says David, promptly ignoring Aaron’s rolled eyes, “and found out something interesting.”

Aaron doesn’t waste any time replying: “I don’t care.”

“You should, you really should this time, because something happened to you.”

Aaron doesn’t say anything at that, there is a certain weariness about him, deeply ingrained, that never really goes away. Talk after talk, Aaron is always on the defense. It’s in the way he never faces him, the way he looks at David side-eyed and fleeting. The way he fiddles with the hem of his sleeve. The way he bursts with anger one moment, just to go back to complete silence the next.

“Listen, Aaron, I know you don’t want your wife to think you’re a junkie and I know for sure you don’t want you kid growing up believing it, either.”

The look Aaron gives him, then, hits David right in the stomach. It’s sheer desperation and, worse than that, resignation.

“But that’s what I am.” The words are ripped out of him, shaky and rough.

“No, no, Aaron. I think you’re not.”

“Didn’t you see my arms?” Aaron’s voice raises, it’s far too loud for the silence of the room, but he doesn’t care. Not when he scrunches up the sleeves of his t-shirt and presents his scars to David, right then and there, proof. _Believe me, now?_ “Didn’t you see these?”

David doesn’t react, he won’t fall for it. He keeps his cool, waits until Aaron’s anger is subsided, until his breathing is back to normal, then he tells him about what he found out at the clinic.

“You do understand this doesn’t make any sense now, do you?”

Aaron’s eyes are wide, surprised just as much as they’re considering.

“Alright,” he concedes, “it’s odd, it’s unusual. I still have these scars, I still had heroin in my bloodstream, it’s a fact.”

“I don’t think you did it to yourself.” David drops the bomb and Aaron, Aaron looks at him like he’s crazy. “Addicts don’t go straight for the arm, they start with their feet first, their hands. You have no scars there, your skin is perfectly smooth.”

“What –what are you implying?” He sounds weary now, Aaron.

“I’m saying someone did this to you. I’m saying you don’t remember anything between the fourth of July and waking up in the street, and that during that time, somehow, somewhere, someone did this to you.”

“This doesn’t make sense!” Bursts out Aaron, his voice is thick, his eyes shiny. “I’m the one who did this, I fucked up my whole life and it’s my own fault. Let me, let me come to terms with that.”

No, David can’t do that. He won’t do that. Because if there is one thing he believes in, it’s justice.

“Then prove it.” He says. “Prove you know how to shoot up.” And that is the moment he takes the stuff out of his bag. A spoon, a lighter, a bag of sugar, a string. A syringe.

“Come on,” he insists, “show me.”

The look Aaron gives him is shocked, a bit disbelieving. He doesn’t move at first, doesn’t think David is being serious, but the more he keeps silently waiting for him, the more Aaron realizes David isn’t joking. Not one bit. His hands are slightly shaking as he raises the spoon, as his fingers brush against the syringe and the string. As he looks and looks and looks and fumbles. As he sets it all down, stares at David dead in the eyes and says:

“I don’t know how. Something -something happened to me.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( More than) A bit late, but life has been pretty hectic lately. Enjoy!

When David gets called to the Station he expects Aaron to have changed his mind, to have decided this whole thing isn’t worth it and given up again. That’s not what has happened, though, because when he walks in it’s another Minyard who catches his eye, or, well, not technically a Minyard.

“Mrs. Sanchez, what are you doing here?”

She’s sitting outside the interrogation room, which is currently occupied, and her hand is bandaged. She looks worse for wear as she stares up at him, with her hair in disarray and bags under her eyes.

“I punched a guy.” She says, just like that.

“And they brought you in for a punch?”

She looks away then, a dust of red spreads over her cheeks.

“I didn’t punch him just once.”

David feels a bit like laughing, mostly because Katelyn doesn’t look like the type to go around punching people, not with her pretty dresses and hair always perfectly braided. David should know better, though, he should have realized she’s a tough one the moment he saw her reaction to this whole Aaron mess.

“Who’s the lucky boy?” He asks. Her face turns somber in a matter of seconds, then disgusted, then angry. This isn’t someone pleasant, then, is he?

“They already interrogated me.” She says, voice clipped.

“I’m not interrogating you, I’m genuinely curious.”

She sighs, passes a hand though her dark hair either in a vain attempt to tone down its wildness or in a simple gesture of tiredness. “It’s Riko Moriyama, that asshole.”

David feels himself go rigid, the moment that name slips from Katelyn’s mouth alarms start ringing in his head. Riko Moriyama, Riko. The person who was with Aaron that night, the person who might know exactly what happened. Aaron keeps denying Riko’s involvement in his heroin addiction, but David still has his reservation, and even if that man really has nothing to do with it, at least he must know what really happened that night. It’s where it all started, it’s where the truth lies. One night, memories Aaron has lost, memories Riko might still keep. Why would Katelyn punch him, though, does she know him personally? Does she know about what Aaron told him?

“I –yes, yes I knew Aaron said he was with him.” She replies. At the surprised look David throws her way, she continues: “I have friends here, in the police. They just told me what everyone knows.”

“And you decided to, what, interrogate him yourself?”

“Well, yes!” She bursts out, some people turn to look at them from their desk. David ignores them. “You aren’t doing anything to help my husband, you didn’t even try to get ahold of Riko for Christ’s sake. I did it myself.”

“And how did that turn out for you?”

She’s quiet then, the strings holding up her body are cut and she slumps in her chair.

“I’m doing everything I can to help Aaron, even if he doesn’t want to be helped. The reason we haven’t investigated Riko yet, is that we follow a certain procedure. We have looked into other leads first, we have followed your husband’s words. You shouldn’t have to make justice yourself, that’s what we’re her for. It’s our job.”

The way she’s slouching on that chair, the way her arms are loose and her brows are furrowed and her eyes are filled with unspilled tears are all signs fatigue, of someone who’s reaching the end of their rope.

“I didn’t mean to hit him, I just wanted to talk at first.” She admits, voice heavy.

“Then why did you?”

“At first he said he had no idea what I was talking about, but when I insisted he turned into such a fucking asshole. He said, I remember, ‘does he still like his white lines? You could make him do _anything_ after a few, did you know?’ Jesus, I just –I just couldn’t hold myself back. I also told the police he was a dealer, which he is, fucking asshole.”

Honestly, David can’t exactly blame her. He doesn’t get to say anything else, though, because in that exact moment Riko steps out of the interrogation room. Moriyama is a known name, they’re involved in pharmaceuticals or something of the sort, but Riko doesn’t look like a rich guy. He looks like your stereotypical dealer, with unwashed hair and baggy clothes and bloodshot eyes. He passes them by, escorted by a police officer and a lawyer by his side. A lawyer David knows all to well. The look he gives Katelyn isn’t murderous, no, it’s mocking, it’s petty. Something tells David this guy isn’t going to get what he deserves.

“Why the hell is someone like him getting represented by Scott Williams?” He asks a soon as Riko is out of the room.

“I have no idea, David,” says Whittier, “I didn’t think he could afford him, to be honest.”

“I don’t think he’s the one paying him.”

“Yeah,” agrees the captain, “either way, we all know what this means.”

“What? What does it mean?” It’s Katelyn, who looks a lot more alive now, standing with her hands on her hips and alarm all over her face.

“It means you’re not getting justice.” Explains David. “Scott Williams is the best there is, that man isn’t going to spend half an hour in jail.”

Once Katelyn is gone, red with anger and disappointment, David can finally inquire about Riko’s interrogation. Of course, he denied Katelyn’s accusation and, with no actual proof, even a mediocre attorney could have easily gotten him out of that situation unscratched. What really is concerning, though, what makes David waver and then bristle with anger, is that Riko denied ever meeting someone named Aaron Minyard.

**VIII**

When Wymack tells him Riko told the police he’s never known him, Aaron isn’t exactly surprised. He might not remember that night, but he remembers Riko, how he was, the way he carried himself. The way he talked. No, Aaron isn’t surprised at all. What does surprise him, but maybe that’s not even true, is that Katelyn punched him right in the face; at least, that’s what he likes imaging. There’s this part of him, primal and selfish, that enjoys the thought of Katelyn standing up for him, hurting Riko. Then again, he’s been spending all his time trying to protect her from the truth, a truth he doesn’t even know himself. Maybe this primal, selfish part of him is just that –a part of a whole. Under control. That’s also why he finds himself half on his feet, the moment Wymack confesses she told the police about Riko’s drug dealing. She shouldn’t get involved, not with that kind of people, not with –not with Aaron’s tainted past.

“She’s a grown woman.” Reminds him Wymack.

“She’s my wife.” He bites right back. “Of course I don’t want her involved in a drug scandal.”

Wymack nods in understanding, there is something more subdued about him, a bit less accusing now that Aaron has somehow agreed to help him. To collaborate. Those are all the detective’s words, obviously, Aaron hasn’t outright agreed to do anything. He has let himself believe that not everything is what it seems, that maybe he _is_ redeemable. That something happened, something that must have changed his life, impacted him in a way he can’t even process. He has allowed himself that, at least. He thinks about Andrew, sometimes, about the things _he_ never allowed himself.

“Are they filing a case?” He asks, hoping that at least Katelyn’s risk will be worth it. The look on detective Wymack’s face tells him otherwise.

“He has a good attorney.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means he has a good attorney.” At Aaron’s murderous look, Wymack continues. “Look, the only way we can get those accuses going is for you to explain what happened that night.”

And there it goes, the trap. It’s heavy, the weight on his shoulders, the weight of every lie and every truth he’s never spoken. He can’t hold it on his own, but he has to. Katelyn has always been there, carrying half of it with him and now she’s the one who needs his help. And Aaron can’t do anything about it. He’s powerless, this black hole in his brain swallowing up every last ounce of hope.

“I told you I don’t remember.” He grits out.

“Try, Aaron, you need to try.”

“I am trying! Don’t you think I’ve been forcing myself to remember every single night, every single minute? Nothing comes up, nothing. It’s fucking terrifying, everything is just black. And it’s not just a few hours, not just a few days, it’s an entire fucking month.” He feel breathless, after. He feels like he let it all out for nothing, because it didn’t help. Because the weight on his shoulders and the one on his chest and the one in his brain are all. Still. There.

There are a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, of detective Wymack looking at him with pity in his eyes. A flash of blond hair, a trembling hand _. I can do it myself_.

“There has to be a way.” The desperation in Wymack’s voice is almost enough to rival Aaron’s own. The one he keeps inside of himself, that he hides in some sort of boys-don’t-cry kind of way that has been ingrained in his brain since he was a child. There is no way, though, and Aaron isn’t redeemable.

“That’s not true.” Says Wymack after Aaron voices those thoughts. “There’s this thing we did in the eighties, I don’t know shit about psychology but, apparently, it became a bit too risky and psychologists stopped agreeing to it. Most of the time it didn’t work, everything that came out was gibberish, but sometimes… sometimes it did work.”

Aaron couldn’t care less about the dangers of this procedure, not if it could help him remember, not if it could help Katelyn.

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s quite simple,” shrugs Wymack, “memory recovery. You sit with a professional and they guide you down the memory lane. Sometimes hypnosis is involved, I don’t really know.”

“Why would that be dangerous?”

It doesn’t sound so bad, thinks Aaron, he’s been through a lot worse. He’s seen other people go through a lot worse, one in particular.

“Maybe we should talk about this directly with Betsy.”

“Who’s Betsy?”

“Doctor Dobson,” replies Wymack, “the woman who did your evaluation. She’s a trusted friend and she’s very competent, I’m sure she can help us make that decision.”

“You mean me, help _me_.” His words come out a bit threatening, voice razor sharp.

“Of course,” nods the detective, hands up in surrender, “it’s your decision.”

It doesn’t really feel that way. There is something about choice and freedom that has always resounded with Aaron, ever since he- ever since _he_ came to live with them. Ever since they started talking, because even Andrew had to give in after spending all his days in bed. Sometimes he misses him so much it feels like being ripped apart.

“Alright,” he agrees, “let’s try.”

***

Betsy Dobson is exactly as he remembers her, short, plump, messy hair and kind features. She looks like a mum, he thinks, distractedly. Right up until she says:

“No.”

Before Wymack can intervene, Aaron speaks up. It’s uncharacteristic of him, he’s the quiet type, the mind-my-own-business type. The guy who didn’t want anything to do with this whole mess, who wanted to be locked up and forgotten. Now, though, now things are different.

“I have scars, on my arms.” He starts. “I spent the last five years believing I was an addict, that I’d ruined my own life. But I didn’t, not really. Someone did something to me and I just –I just can’t _remember_ it. Do you know what that’s like? An entire month just gone, _poof_.”

“I don’t,” she replies, “know what it’s like, and I don’t pretend to know. I wish I could help you, but memory recovery is a very dangerous path, it might force to relive trauma in a way that isn’t necessarily controllable or healthy, for that matter.”

It’s Wymack who speaks up, then. “It’s the only way, though, isn’t it?”

The doctor keeps silent and that’s an answer itself. And, for once in his life, Aaron wants to stand up for himself.

“It’s my choice, doesn’t that matter?”

Betsy Dobson regards him curiously, she looks indecisive, there’s a strain to the tilt of her mouth.

“That always matters, but I’m not sure you could actually benefit from this. The situation isn’t… ideal.”

“That’s the whole point,” bites back Aaron, getting worked up, “you’re right: the situations isn’t ideal, it’s a nightmare. This is the only way and I –I need your help, doctor Dobson.”

It doesn’t matter how much he tried, how much he insisted, he never actually expected her to agree. When she does, it takes a while to register. Maybe it’s because of his mother, because she never said yes to anything unless it involved drugs and staying out of the house. Maybe it’s because he has a tendency of giving up on himself. Maybe, maybe, maybe. It doesn’t matter. She says yes and now Aaron has to deliver. That’s how he finds himself laying on a recliner chair in her office, eyes closed and blinds drawn. Relaxed. The AC is on, there is no trace of the warmth and humidity of the police car they used to get here. The sweat on his brows and upper lips has dried, breathing feels easier.

“Alright, Aaron, if you’re ready we can start.” Says Betsy. “David, if you don’t mind.”

There’s silence, Aaron opens his eyes just in time to see Wymack’s pinched expression when he replies:

“I need to stay here.”

“Actually,” rebuts Betsy, “this should be confidential.”  


Before Wyamck can speak, before the argument can get any further, Aaron intervenes.

“It’s fine, he can stay.” After all, that’s the whole purpose. If there is one person Aron has learnt he can trust in this whole mess, its’ Wymack. He doesn’t know why the detective cares so much, it must have something to do with morals and principles and justice, Aaron doesn’t really care. The only thing that matters is for this thing to go well, to actually help. Doctor Dobson gives him a look, she isn’t an easy person to read, but Aaron can easily recognize the displeasure on her face. She shrugs, though, and gestures fro him to close his eyes once again. Aaron obliges.

“Alright Aaron, imagine standing in front of a body of water. It’s warm, there is a light breeze. Feel the water on your feet.”

He sees it, the lake. That one lake. Only this time, he’s the only one on the beach. Alone, standing in front of the water. It’s calm, a few ripples here and there. He imagines himself closing his eyes, breathing in and –

_And breathe out, good, Aaron._

The voice of a woman, Doctor Dobson.

_Now start walking into the water. I’ll be counting and, on zero, you’ll be completely submerged and you’ll find yourself in that bar on the fourth of July 2015._

He starts walking, distantly aware of the countdown. The water moves around him, creating space for his body, welcoming him. For some reason, he expected it to be cold. It’s not, it’s perfect.

_Two, one._

The water reaches his chin, dampens the tips oh his hair. On zero, he ducks under.

The smell hits him first, pungent, cold. The smell of the woods, the breeze on his skin. It smells like night and trees and water.

_Aaron, I need to throw up._

He’s standing in it, in the water, a freezing stream wetting his ankles. The rocks are slippery under his soles, there’s pressure on his wrist. Tugging, tugging, tugging. And then, the stars. Its’ different now, he feels like floating, the stars moving above him. Or maybe he’s the one moving, he can’t tell. It’s a clear night, the stars are bright and numerous and, still, there’s this darkness at the edge of his vision that doesn’t fade away. Not one bit. His eyes take it all in, even though it’s harder than it should be, the sky with its tars, the trees and the –the water tank. Right there, on the left. _The water tank_ , he murmurs.

_Aaron, you need to be at the bar._

And that’s the one word that tips him into another scenario altogether, because right now he _is_ at the bar. The music is loud, obnoxious, there’s voices all around him, someone laughs. _I am_ , he says. He is. The lights are low, warm and shining all over people’s faces. It makes the atmosphere intimate, everything feels and looks –hotter. Saturated. There’s sweat at the nape of his neck, he feels a drop fall down his spine. It makes him shiver.

_Everything okay, Aaron? What do you see?_

He sees a lot. He sees the bar, dark wood and glasses and everything sticky. He sees people, dancing and slick with sweat, bodies all over other bodies. It’s not uncomfortable, he feels –he feels settled. At peace. There’s Kevin.

_Who’s Kevin?_

Kevin is Riko’s friend, the memory comes to him at once, of the both of them, together. Laughing, Kevin looking at Riko with something akin to adoration in his eyes. It feels –it feels familiar. But then something changes again and, this time, Kevin is staring at him. Green eyes unfocused, half closed with abandon. He’s dancing, _they’re_ dancing. Kevin’s hands all over him, his breath on his cheek. Someone’s laughing, low and scattered and –and it’s him. He’s laughing, swaying back and forth, hanging onto Kevin as Kevin hangs onto him. An appreciative whistle rings in the air, the sound fades as the music lulls them both into this affectionate feeling. It’s so strong it nearly knocks the air out of him, the affection he feels right now, the urge to hold and protect and none of this makes any sense.

_Why, Aaron, why doesn’t it make sense?_

_Because Kevin hates me._

He’s not at the bar anymore, but Kevin’s right there with him, his hair in Aaron’s hands as he doubles over in front of him and vomits. The noises go straight to Aaron’s stomach, the water lapping at his ankles is freezing cold. There’s this feeling spreading over his chest, this anxiousness, something bordering on desperation. And then annoyance, deep rooted and burning in his guts. He can feel his fingers tighten in Kevin’s hair and Kevin’s coughs getting worse and louder and louder and- and then a shotgun echoes through the trees. Loud. Startling. Headlights in his vision, Aaron’s heart beating wildly against his ribcage. Kevin trembles in his hold. Another gunshot. The lights are blinding. Realization dawns on him. _They’re hunting us._

_Who’s hunting you? Aaron, who’s hunting you?_

But nobody’s hunting him anymore. No, it’s day now, he’s standing on the curb. Something’s coming. He’s standing on the curb and there’s houses all around him and he’s waiting-

_What’s coming?_

_It’s the school bus. I don’t –I’m sorry._

_It’s okay, Aaron, the mind can’t be trained. Memories might resurface even if not sought for, try to focus back to that night._

Aaron tries, he does, he tries hard but the scene doesn’t change as the bus, yellow and full, appears at the end of the road, until it does. It’s quiet now, he’s sitting on something soft, plush. He’s in a room he’s never seen before, it feels claustrophobic, small. Dark. And then the lights turn on, and the first thing Aaron notices is the wallpaper. Dark green, a rich, golden motif repeated over and over and over. A triangle. Something dangerously resembling an eye in the middle. It looks as f it’s moving, turning over on itself and making him nauseous. Until the door opens. It’s the sound Aaron registers first, and then the silhouette standing on the doorway, and then that feeling of anxiousness and desperation takes over. Because there is a monster standing in that corner, right in front of him, a man with the face of an animal, blurry and walking towards him. Aaron can’t move, he can’t feel his legs, he can’t feel his arms and hands and that –that thing keeps coming and the bus comes out of nowhere. A blur of speed and yellow and a horn blaring. It scares him half to death. It’s enough to wake him up without the help of doctor Dobson.

“-Aaron, Aaron. You’re alright, you’re safe here in my studio. Aaron, talk to me.”

It feels like hours have passed before he manages to turn his gaze onto doctor Dobson, before he fully comes back to himself. He is distantly aware of Wymack’s presence in the room, uncharacteristically silent.

“Good, are you with me?” Asks Betsy. Aaron nods, stiff and still a bit shocked. Disappointment settles heavy in the pit of his stomach, weighting him down, just to rush back up and up and up until it tumbles out of his lips.

“I’m sorry.” He blurts out. “You were right, this got us nowhere. That stupid, fucking bus.” He’s angry now, he feels it in his tone, in the red rising to his cheeks and the trembling of his voice. He’s angry at himself, because even this last, not-so-well-aimed attempt at saving himself failed. There’s just something inside him, something that fights and opposes and always, _always_ wins. Maybe he’s not meant to stand up for himself, since he was a child and his mother’s hands started leaving marks on his skin and Aaron just –took it. He’s done nothing but taking everything life threw at him, always passive, always conceding and adapting. Even Katelyn had to be the one making choices, offering ultimatums. He remembers Andrew, straining against the sheets and the pain and the nausea, just so that he could touch him –on the face like he always did –and make sure his bruises were just that, bruises. Weak, living a non-life and, even then, still fighting for Aaron. Sometimes, he misses him so hard it feels as if he’s missing a part of himself. Physically, a limb, an organ, the pain is real. Sometimes, he tries to think of him, to remember more than those sporadic moments his memory throws back at him, and comes up blank. Blank and static.

“Aaron, there is nothing to be sorry about. I told you, this procedure is often more harmful than helpful and, most of all, fairly inaccurate. Remembering isn’t a straight line, memories are scattered and disguised, especially those that we classify as traumatic.”

He knows, he knows all of this and, still, he can’t suppress this feeling of inadequacy eating him from the inside out. He turns to look at Wymack and apologizes, again, watches him twitch uncomfortably.

“I can’t say I didn’t expect more, because you and I both did, but you shouldn’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”

“But it is, it’s all my fault. All of this. And I’m tired, so tired of not knowing.”

The look on the detective’s face is close enough to pity that Aaron has to advert his own gaze, because Wymack might be unusually invested in this whole case, but if nothing comes out of it he won’t be the one ending up in jail. He won’t be the one losing his family. Again.

“It wasn’t completely useless, though.” It’s Wymack, ever the optimist.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he starts, “you mentioned a ‘Kevin’ who was at the bar with you and Riko that night, do you remember something more about him?”

Aaron feels himself frown, lines etching themselves onto his forehead, and then the memories come to him, just like that. Just like a switch.

“I do. Kevin used to be Riko’s best friend, I think –I think they knew each other since they were children. Kevin was very, how can I say? Adoring, I guess, admiring. He wasn’t possessive, that was Riko’s thing, but he was jealous. He was jealous of me.”

“When you were –asleep or whatever,” says Wymack, throwing an apologetic glance at doctor Dobson, “you said that Kevin hated you.”

He sees it clear as day, the look on Kevin’s face every time Aaron entered a room. The haughtiness, the dislike, staring him up and down as if he was nothing but a toy. The hatred, eventually.

“He does, did.” Corrects himself Aaron. “That’s why it doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Us dancing together, what I saw.” He explains. “It doesn’t make sense, but the night feels real. It feels like it happened, I don’t know how to explain it but it does.”

Betsy Dobson catches his attention, she hands him a glass of water and waits fro him to take a few sips before speaking up.

“To be quite honest, that is not what worries me about the memories you re-lived.” She and Wymack exchange a look, Aaron swallows. “You mentioned someone hunting you and then you talked about a creature, half-man half-pig.”

There horror that’s starting to spread over Aaron’s chest, cold as ice, must be showing on his face as well, because Betsy doesn’t’ waste a second before saying:

“That’s completely normal, Aaron, I don’t think such creature really existed. Memory recovery is a lot like dreaming, the line dividing fantasy from reality is very thin. But what about the other part, in the woods?”

“I don’t know, I’m sorry. The trees and the stream and –and the water tank, that’s all I remember.” He hears the discomfort in his own voice, the resignation. “I’m sorry,” He says, again. “I’m sorry.”

**IX**

The case is leading nowhere, there is nothing they’ve done up until now that showed some light onto this whole mess. Aaron’s memories are tangled and stuck in mud and nothing makes sense. David really thought that the memory recovery thing could help, he really thought it would be a turning point. But it wasn’t. It was just another dead end.

“We could go there,” says Abby, reassuring hands on his shoulders, “a hike would do you good.”

Needless to say, he agrees. He’s done this from the moment he met her, trusting Abby. Trusting she knows what could be good –best –for him. She is just one of those people, looking at her, holding her hand, following her... it makes him feel at peace. She is very easy to trust. That’s why he finds himself in the woods, last night rain blessed them with a few hours of relief from the suffocating warmth of this stupid state and the air, in the morning, is chilly. The sky is covered in clouds, dark grey and promising another storm, the smell of musk and wet soil tickles his nostrils, strong and pungent. He stands there, Abby a few steps behind him, and watches the water tank. Tracking down this place was easy, only one water tank in the area was close enough to the bar that it could have been reached by a group of drunken, probably high twenty-something year-olds. The woods surrounding it, though, are well spread and the water tank appears visible from any point whatsoever. David doesn’t even know what he’s looking for, he doesn’t even know what he came here for. It was the only clue Aaron left him, the only lead that could be followed since the results of his search on a certain Kevin Day turned out more than a little disappointing. The guy disappeared into thin air and David is left searching the woods for –for what? For something, anything. The thought startles a laugh out of him, it also makes him feel kind of pathetic.

“Come on, David,” comes Abby’s voice, “let’s move.”

And so they move, they walk and walk and walk. They keep quiet, comfortable, and sometimes Abby takes his hand into hers and squeezes lightly. _I’m here_. And then they walk. And walk and walk and walk. And the scenario doesn’t change. The trees look all the same, the stream they’re following branches out more than a few times and suddenly Aaron’s words become even more ambiguous. It takes them the whole morning to find it, but when they do Wymack’s heart stutters in his chest.

Standing there, in the middle of a clearing, abandoned and falling apart, is an old, yellow school bus. The paint is scratched off, has been eroded by time and weather, its original color lost to the brownish signs of rusting. Weeds and ivy have climbed all over its sides, hiding the graffiti someone must have put there when it was first left there. The sight of it is enough to get Wymack’s blood going, he feels himself running towards it, walking around, inspecting it. He does it all on auto-pilot as Aaron’s voice resounds in his ears, _that stupid, fucking bus_. He knows Abby is watching him, he knows there must be worried lines on her forehead and that her mouth must be turned down at the edges, he knows he must look a bit crazy. Because it’s not the bus itself that makes him stop dead in his ministrations, that makes his breath itch and his heart stop beating for one, long second. No, it’s not the bus, it’s the patch of soil standing out from the rest of the clearing, just besides it. The patch of soil where mushrooms have grown and flourished. It’s the grave that was dug underneath it.


End file.
